


Take My Hands, for They are Cold

by fireheart93



Category: Marvel (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Thor (Movies)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-06
Updated: 2014-04-06
Packaged: 2018-01-18 09:38:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,294
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1423666
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fireheart93/pseuds/fireheart93
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There have been female warriors before, but not for many years. Sif is determined to change that, but cannot do it alone. This is her story, but not just hers. No hero is created in isolation.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Take My Hands, for They are Cold

Sif was five years old the first time she touched a sword. It was her father’s broadsword, twice her height, too large for her to possibly lift. He came in as she was trying, tiny hands wrapped around the rough leather hilt. He laughed, a warm sound, and ruffled his hand through her golden hair.  
“That’s not a sword for little girls,” he said. He pulled her away from it and she felt tears well up in her eyes, though she could not say why. He took her hand in his, dwarfing hers and led her to the wall where his weapons were displayed in all their glory. He took down an ornamental dagger, almost a toothpick in his hand. He knelt down before her, a warm smile on his bearded face, and put the dagger in her grip.  
“There,” he said. “That’s more your size, I think.” She looked down at the blade in her hand, watching her father adjust her grip, and she felt a smile spread across her face. As he led her through some basic movements she felt her smile widen into a grin. This felt good, better than sewing with her mother, or tending to the gardens. Before long the bell for dinner sounded, and she was filled with disappointment.  
“Will you teach me more, father?” she asked, pulling at his robe. A strange expression cross his face, one she wouldn’t understand until many years later. Then he smiled.  
“Of course, dearest,” he said, “you have my word.” She hugged him then, arms barely reaching around his middle, his hand resting heavily on her back. “Come on, Sif, time for dinner.” As she followed him out she looked to the wall of swords and made a vow, that one day she would carry a sword of her own.

****************** 

It was not unheard of for a woman to learn to wield a blade. The Queen was an expert with a sword. But women learnt swordplay to defend themselves; they did not go into battle, fighting for honour and glory alongside the men. A woman’s skill with the sword was to be called on only as a last resort, when all hope had failed.  
Sif planned to change that.  
She was fifteen now, and her mother was with child. Her father, she knew, was hoping for a son, but would settle for a more lady-like daughter. Sometimes, when she was practicing with a blade and long knife, she caught him looking at her, regret in his eyes. Not regretting that he had taught her, but that he had not restrained her. He had taught her like a son, taught her to revel in battle, to desire the glory of it. And then her told her she would never see it, that she would marry, build a home, have children, be a wife and mother, but never a warrior. Even now, thinking about it caused fury to rise within her, making her want to scream and break things. But she didn’t. She still had hope that if she could prove herself, if she behaved like a warrior in all ways then maybe someone would see, someone would give her a chance. It was all she could hope for.

******************** 

She was eighteen, and beautiful and that was all. Old enough to be married, to go to feasts to search for a husband. Her mother made her get fitted for new dresses, spending hours at the dressmakers in the morning, then helping look after her baby sister in the afternoon, forcing her to move her sword practice to after dark. She conceded, but when asked what colours she would like she chose black and blue and dark red over the more earthy colours her mother preferred. Before each feast her mother called her to her room and brushed her hair. She knew her mother took pride in her beauty, the regularity of her features, the length and golden colour of her hair. If Sif would let her she could spend hours brushing and arranging it.  
“Such golden hair,” she would say. “If the Midguardians saw you they would worship you as a harvest goddess, with hair the colour of ripe wheat.” Sif scowled but remained silent. A warrior did not argue with their mother. And so she allowed herself to be prepared and painted, dressed in finery and led to the feast. She stood against the wall, hands twisting in the skirt of her wine red gown, scowling at any man who looked her way. Most were cowed by the barely veiled anger in her eyes. All save one. The Golden Prince came to her, confident smile shining.  
“I would think you fair, maid, if only you would smile,” he said, voice loud with drink.  
“You presume I desire you to think me fair,” she said, voice dry.  
“All maids wish to be seen as fair,” he said, with the certainty of a man who only saw women after they had spent hours preparing to meet him.  
“Well I have better things to think of,” Sif said archly.  
“And what might they be?” the Prince asked, almost leering at her.  
“Why, how well I can wield my blade, my lord,” she replied, trying not to smirk. He raised his eyebrows.  
“What would such a pretty maid know about a blade?” Sif felt fury rising in her, clouding her mind.  
“Meet me at the practice ground tomorrow morning and I will show you,” she could not believe she had issued such a challenge. Before he could answer her his mother called him away, her eyes lingering on the golden-haired beauty standing sullenly by the wall. Sif slipped out soon after but she did not go unobserved. The dark-haired Prince watched her go, fascination in his eyes.

******** 

Her mother loved her, Sif knew but she didn’t understand her at all. Her parents had arranged her marriage when she turned eighteen, and she was happy, with her husband and her home and her daughters; she did not want anything more. When she dreamed she hoped only for the happiness of her family, perhaps that she could bear a son, the final honour a wife and mother could aim for. She loved her beautiful eldest girl fiercely, desperate to protect her from the judgement of the world. She did not understand what drove her to spend all her free moments on the practice ground. She felt that she was losing her little girl, but she had no idea how to find her again. So she brushed her hair, put her in pretty dresses, tried to find her a kind husband, and prayed that her beautiful, headstrong daughter would find the right path before she was hurt and lost forever. 

************ 

Sif was alone in the practice ground, as she always was the morning after a big feast. She was running drills against a dummy when she heard movement behind her. She spun around, blade raised, but stopped when she saw the Golden Prince stood there, sword in hand, his dark-haired brother standing a few steps behind him. She lowered her blade.  
“I did not think you would come.”  
“I almost didn’t.”  
“Then why are you here?”  
“I was curious,” he smirked. He pulled off his cloak, flexing his arms showily as he passed it to his brother. She focussed, entering a fighting stance. The Golden Prince smiled and mirrored her. The fight was short, the Prince using his strength relentlessly, forcing her across the ground. She became desperate, trying every trick she knew but it wasn’t enough. The Prince disarmed her with a flick of his sword, sending her blade spinning into the wall. He placed his blade against her breastbone.  
“You are good,” he said, “but I am better.” He turned his back and walked away, taking his cloak without looking at his brother. She frowned, blinking back tears as she bent down to retrieve her sword. As she stood she felt a presence behind her, and she turned.  
“Did you stay only to mock me?” she asked the Dark-Haired Prince, refusing to look at him.  
“No,” he said, holding his hands up defensively, “to offer you advice.” Sif stilled.  
“What do you mean?” she asked.  
“You should not show such reverence to your opponents,” he said almost laughing, “for they will certainly not feel any for you.”  
“Are you saying I revere your brother?”  
“I am saying you were so desperate to fight correctly that you doomed yourself to failure.” She tilted her head in confusion. “Proper etiquette is all well and good for duels between two gentlemen, but you must face facts. Almost every enemy you face will be bigger and stronger than you. You have two advantages.”  
“And what might those be?” The Prince smirked.  
“Your speed and the dirty tricks I will teach you.” Sif eyed him suspiciously.  
“Why would you teach me?”  
“Because I am bored,” the Prince shrugged. “And I would love to see someone defeat my brother in armed conflict someday.” Sif sheathed her blade, turning to face the Prince. She studied him carefully, before allowing a grin to spread across her face.  
“Well then, let’s see if we can make that happen, my lord.”  
“Please, lady,” he said, “call me Loki.”

********************************* 

When she was eight she sat on her father’s knee and asked, face deadly serious,  
“How do you become a warrior?” Her father laughed but she didn’t know why, it was a very simple question.  
“Well,” he said, once his laughter had subsided, “first you must learn to fight.”  
“I’m doing that already,” she said, frowning. “What else?”  
“Once you know how to fight you can challenge a warrior or a member of the guards to single armed combat. If you win, you earn the right to be called warrior, and can go into battle to defend Asguard and her allies.”  
“Have you ever been in battle, father?” she asked.  
“Yes, dearest, I have been. It was many years ago though, before your mother and I were married.”  
“What was it like?” she asked, eager eyes shining. A shadow passed over his face but she didn’t see, and was too young to understand even if she had. Eventually he cleared his throat.  
“It was just like the stories.” She smiled, nodding, as if it was just as she had expected.  
“When I grow up,” she said, “I will be a warrior, just like you.” That made him laugh, warmer this time.  
“I’m sure you will, Sif, I’m sure you will.”

**************** 

Her first battle terrified her. She stood beside Thor, hand gripping the hilt of her blade so tightly her knuckles were paper white. The daemons were gathered less than a mile away, howling, writing mas of black skin and red eyes. Thor looked down at her, grinning,  
“Are you ready, Lady?” Thor asked, smiling down at her.  
“Always,” she replied, hoping her voice didn’t shake. Even if it had Thor wouldn’t have noticed. He was filled with the battle lust, eyes glittering, swinging Mjolnir as he turned away to speak with the captain. She checked the straps on her breastplate and shield, stilling as she felt a second presence behind her.  
“There is no shame in fear,” Loki said.  
“That may be true,” she replied, “but I am not afraid.” Loki laughed.  
“Of the two of us you may be the better swordsman, Lady, but I will always be the better liar. I have had more practice.” She smiled sadly and turned to face him.  
“I would tell you the truth, but you already know how I feel. To voice such thoughts before a battle seems to be tempting fate.” He smiled softly at her.  
“We will both return home safely, I am certain.”  
“How?” she asked, more vulnerable than she would have liked.  
“Because you and I are fated for greater things than to die on a field at the hands of daemons.”  
“That would be a terrible end to the story,” she smiled. He pressed a kiss to her temple before moving to stand beside Thor on the front line. She gritted her teeth and stared at the enemy before her. She ran with the men beside her, silent among the screams, teeth bared as her blade sliced through flesh, feeling blood wet on her cheek. Moments passed in a blur; she caught sight of Thor, hammer swinging, feral grin on his face, his brother never far from his side. Loki fought with two long knives, combining speed and magic with ruthless efficiency, teeth bared in a snarl. She fought with all her skill, using every dirty trick Loki had taught her and creating a few new ones as the battle moved on. And then she began to smile. And once she had begun, she found she did not wish to stop.

********************* 

Her mother came to her room the afternoon after her humiliation in the practice ground.  
“I heard you were speaking with the Prince at dinner,” she said. She was trying to sound merely mildly interested, but Sif could almost see the images of royal weddings dancing in her mother’s head.  
“Only briefly,” she said, trying to cut off her mother’s imagination.  
“What did he say to you?” Sif could not think of a lie, but then the truth was not exactly encouraging.  
“He told me I would be beautiful if only I would smile.”  
“That is what I am always saying, if you would listen” her mother chides, stroking her golden hair. “But maybe you needed to hear it from a Prince. Is he a handsome as they say?” She almost giggled, like a girl once more.  
“He is everything a maid could dream of.” Her mother did not hear the sarcasm.  
“There is another feast at the new moon,” she said, “maybe he will speak with you again, and maybe this time you will smile.” Sif did not bother to reply, simply shrugging noncommittally. Her mother would not hear her; she was busy sorting through the guard-robe, deciding which dress would show her daughter’s attributes to their best advantage. Out of spite, Sif fetched her long knife and began sharpening it at her dressing table. Her mother spun at the sound.  
“Sif, how many times do I have to tell you not to do that in your room? You are making a mess.”  
“Father can sharpen his weapons in his room,” Sif muttered.  
“Yes but he is your father.” Sif did not see how this made a difference, but she returned her knife to its sheath. She was in no mood to argue with her mother.

******************** 

Loki taught her in his high-vaulted sitting room in the Royal Quarters of the palace. To sneak her in he put glamour on her, disguising her as a serving girl. The magic felt strange, dancing green-gold along her skin, catching at the corners of her eyes. It was odd to be walking through the halls she knew in such a disguise. They passed guards and courtiers who bowed respectfully to the Prince but did not even look at her. When they reached the doors of the Royal Quarters they paused.  
“Keep your head, down,” he whispered to her, “and walk a pace behind me.” She did as he said, feeling out of place, keeping her eyes on the floor, but she did not miss the glances and smirks of those they passed.  
“Why did they smile?” she asked him once they reached his rooms, feeling very young.  
“Because they thought it was a little early for me to be bringing a woman to my bed, even one as beautiful as you,” she scowls at him, but is warmed by the compliment, given in such an offhand way, as if her beauty didn’t matter. With a wave of his hand he dispelled the glamour, and she breathed more easily without it. Loki led her to the centre of the room, where the furniture had been pushed aside to leave a wide space. She wondered if he had used his magic, or simply had the servants move everything. It never occurred to her that he might have moved it himself.  
“I will not go easy on you,” he said as he removed his cloak.  
“I did not expect you to,” Sif smiled, rolling her shoulders. She did not miss the way his eyes traced the muscles of her arms.  
“Now,” he said, drawing his sword, “let’s begin, shall we?” 

************************** 

The Aesir grieved for Loki; the details of his transgressions were kept from them, they were told simply that he died trying to defend Asguard from the Jotuns. Sif found the lie comforting, as if it allowed her be relieved that Thor was alive and to mourn Loki at the same time. Thor’s grief was open and clear to all who saw the empty space by his side where his dark-haired brother once walked. Frigga did not weep in public, every inch the Queen, but her eyes were empty when she looked on anyone save her one remaining son. Odin kept to his room, still recovering from his sleep. Sif held her grief hidden, not because she was ashamed of it, but because there were no words to explain her feelings. How do you grieve for the man who showed you respect when no one else would? Who understood you? Who taught you every dirty trick he knew? Who gave you the courage to take what you wanted, and showed you that sometimes you have to be selfish? If asked, how could she explain her grief for the man who tried to kill her best friend, who almost succeeded in killing his own father? She had no answer, so she held her silence and was for the most part undisturbed.  
“Are you well, lady?” Thor asked, coming to stand beside her where she was leaning on the balcony.  
“Should it not be me asking that question?” she said, not looking at him.  
“Perhaps,” he said, “but everyone is asking me. Few know how close you and Loki were.” She shook her head.  
“Not so close. We understood each other, or at least, he understood me.”  
“You should not blame yourself for Loki’s actions.” That make Sif look at him.  
“I do not. Loki made his own choices. I am simply trying to reconcile the man who gave me the knowledge that allowed me to take what I wanted with the man who could risk the lives of everyone he has ever loved to further his own petty ambition.”  
“That is something we must all do,” Thor said, laying a hand on her shoulder. “That does not mean you have to do it alone.” He was silent for a moment, considering his next word. “You did not need him,” he said finally. Sif looked at him sharply. “What I mean is, I believe you would have become a warrior, even if he hadn’t taught you.”  
“I know,” she said, looking away. “But it would have taken me many years to find the courage and the skill I needed. There is no shame in accepting instruction.” Thor nodded understandingly. Silence settled between them.  
“What about your mortal?” Sif said. “You promised you would return to her.” She knew it was cruel, but she did not want to answer any more questions and she had been taught deflection by the master. Still, she did not look Thor in the eye.  
“I will return to her, as soon as I may,” the Prince says, eyes drawn to the shattered Bifrost. “Until then she has her friends. She is not alone.” He sounded so sure.  
‘It’s not the same,’ Sif wanted to shout, ‘it doesn’t matter that they are with her, what matters is that you promised you would be, but here you are. You should never have made such a promise if you were not certain you could keep it, you will only hurt her.’ Instead she rested her hand on his.  
“All will be well,” she said. He nodded like he believed it. She wished that she could.

****************************  
A month into their training, Loki handed Sif a shield, not too large, decorated simply with red panels and silver edges. She tested the weight of it, and found it surprisingly light in her hands.  
“I thought it might suit you,” he said, eyes slipping over her.  
“It’s a good weight,” she said, testing the balance between the shield and her sword.  
“I had it made for you,” Loki said, watching her intently, an almost gentle smile on his face. “You fight well with a knife, but you lack the strength to use it effectively as a defensive weapon. The shield will fix that.” Sif examined the edge.  
“It’s sharpened.”  
“Only slightly. Warriors like my brother, who rely on strength alone, do not use shields as they simply hinder them. But you, I think, will learn to wield it as a weapon.” Sif was already running drills, testing how different the shield felt.  
“This is solid,” she said. “A blow to a weak point will be as effective as a blade.”  
“Exactly,” Loki grinned wolfishly. “I think this is the final piece of the puzzle. Become proficient in this, and I believe you would be able to defeat any swordsman in Asguard. Including my brother.”  
“I look forward to it,” Sif grinned back.

********************************** 

When Sif first began to spend her time with the Princes and the Warriors Three her mother was torn between concern and pleasure. This was the most time her solitary daughter had spent with men, but it soon became clear that she at least had no intentions of marriage. Volstagg was already married with many children, and was too old for her daughter even by the standards of the Aesir. Hogun was too quiet, she knew her daughter would never be happy married to such a man, though it was clear they were friends. For a time she thought Fandral might propose, he certainly spent more time with her than his other fleeting conquests. But time went on and she realised her daughter fitted with these men precisely because none of them wished to marry her. She was not an object of desire to them; she was simply Sif, a warrior and a friend. That left the Princes, and in her most private moments she allowed herself to imagine her daughter as the right hand of the King of Asguard. But such hopes were fleeting, and did not seem likely to become reality soon. Her daughter valued her independence too much, that was clear. So, with reluctance, she washed her hands of her formerly-golden daughter. Her youngest needed her more than Sif ever had. Sif went to live in the palace with the warriors, coming home occasionally, as if it were a duty she must perform. She always gave them notice, arriving and leaving exactly when she said she would. Her mother never invited her to stay longer and she never asked. Even her father did not know what to say to her. Her visits were filled with small talk and words left unspoken. She wore her armour, as if she were going into battle instead of going home.  
‘Perhaps that is how she sees us,’ her mother thought, ‘as enemies who stood in her way. That was never my intention, but who can say what is going on in that head of hers. Maybe her father could understand her, but then he’s a man. He was born to be a warrior. All the same, I wish she would smile at me, like she did when she was a little girl. She was so beautiful then.’

***************************** 

Sif stormed into Loki’s sitting room, throwing herself down on the bench. Loki looked up from his book.  
“Something the matter?” he asked, eyebrows raised.  
“I am tired of people looking at me and seeing only my beauty,” she growled. “I told my mother I wish to cut my hair, so it doesn’t get in my way. She refused to allow it.”  
“Do you need your mother’s permission?”  
“Of course not,” Sif scoffed. “But she is my mother; I value her love, even if I do not have her understanding.”  
“That is admirable, but I fear you will have to make a choice.” They sat in silence for a time, Loki flicking through his book, Sif staring fixedly at the floor length mirror on the opposite wall. She really looked at herself, not as a warrior but as a woman. What did she want men to think when they saw her? Did she want them to find her attractive? Perhaps, but what else? She wanted them to listen to her, to look past her hair and realise that she had opinions worth hearing, that she could fight as well, if not better than any of them. Could she do that and still be beautiful? Didn’t matter, she scolded herself, her hair was impractical. It got in the way when she fought, therefore it had to go.  
“I want it cut,” she said. Loki shut his book, grinning at her.  
“Excellent,” he said. “May I have the honour?”  
“Why not,” she shrugged carelessly, a deliberate front. He stood and fetched some scissors, silver blades etched with runes. She stared at them.  
“They have magic in them,” she said. “What do they do?”  
“Nothing sinister,” he laughed. “They simply ensure that I cannot make a mistake. I cannot say exactly what they will do to your hair, but you will like it.” She still had doubt in her eyes. “I give you my word nothing will happen that you do not want.”  
“Very well then,” Sif said. He led her to a chair, sat her down and wrapped a cloak around her. He released her hair from its braid and brushed it with a silver comb. She felt warmth trickle down her spine at the care in his touch. He didn’t speak as he began to cut, instead allowing the silence to be filled by the sound of the scissors. She felt the whispers of magic moving through her hair, changing it, making it something new. She lost track time, eyes drifting shut. Eventually Loki stopped, laying the scissors down on a table and taking her hand in his.  
“Come, lady,” he said, “take a look.” He had led her to the mirror. She looked for a long moment. Her hair was shorter certainly, just brushing her shoulders, but a far greater change had been wrought. Where once her hair was golden it was now a deep, rich brown, no longer the colour of harvest-time. Beautiful, yes, but not eye-catching, not different. Still Sif stared in silence.  
“If you don’t like it,” Loki said, almost uncertain, “I can find a way to change it back.”  
“No!” Sif cried. “No. It’s exactly what I wanted.”

******************************* 

When he took her to bed it seemed natural, an obvious progression of their relationship, of her education. She had imagined it in her idle moments, imagined pale hands on her skin, long fingers tangling in her hair, and when the invitation came she found she wanted it. She wanted to know what it was like, to share her body with a man she trusted, without worrying about her reputation or her future. When he kissed her it felt a little like she though love might feel; like passion and affection rolled together with knowledge of the other person. She ran her fingers though his dark hair, darker even than her own. He pressed kisses to her forehead, her face and neck, hands touching her skin like she was something precious, but not something fragile. When he paused for a moment she felt no doubt, even when he moved away. He did not ask if she was certain, he knew her well enough to see her decision. He simply passed her a small bottle.  
‘Drink this,’ he said, softly, ‘it will prevent any unwished for consequences.’ She drank it. He moved in close once more and began to teach her. His hands were larger than hers; they felt cold against the heat of her skin, reminding her of the winter snows and the ice on the lake. She touched him in return, tentatively at first then surer in response to his halting breaths and panting laughs. He took control and she allowed it, wanting to learn, wanting to set aside her rigid self-control for just a little while. He laid her down, hair fanning out across the pillow. She saw the dark strands out of the corner of her eye, a mark he had made upon her that would stay with her for life, and she didn’t mind. She didn’t mind at all. As he entered her she felt only satisfaction; she had chosen this, not her parents, not a ceremony, just her. Just her decision that she was ready. They began to move together, rocking against each other, each seeking their own pleasure, eyes closed, mouths open, breathing the thick air without a sound. She felt tension building inside her and began to move faster, desperate for release. He responded, driving into her, cold skin warming with the friction. In the end they cried out in unison, more by accident than design. They stayed like that for a moment, a parody of intimacy, until he pulled away. They lay side by side, not speaking, not touching. After a time he reached out, running a hand down her arm before standing and walking away, returning with a soft, slightly damp cloth. They did not avoid each other’s gaze as they cleaned up and dressed. There was no shame. They had taken what they wanted without fear of judgement. Afterwards she left. They would come together like this again, she was sure; there was something addictive about the feeling of being so completely vulnerable, so completely powerful. She didn’t love him, she was certain of that. But he understood her. For the moment, that was more than enough. 

***********************************  
She was in her room when Thor came to her.  
“Welcome lord,” she said, smiling until she caught the look on his face. “What’s wrong?”  
“It’s Loki,” he said. She felt the world stop. Thor took hold of her hands, providing an anchor. Eventually she found her voice.  
“What about him?”  
“He’s on Midguard,” Thor said, speaking hurriedly. “He has the Tesseract and is raising an army. Father is using his dark magic to send me there.” He hesitated.  
“To do what?” Sif asked sharply. He looked away. “Thor, tell me.”  
“I am to stop him, in whatever way is necessary,” he said. He looked up, met her eyes. “My father told me to kill my brother if I had to.” She felt something clench around her heart but didn’t let it show on her face. Thor looked so lost as he asked, “What should I do?” She rested her hand on his collar bone.  
“You will go to Midguard, you will find Loki, and you will stop him. It is your duty.” Thor took a deep breath and nodded.  
“You are right, Lady,” he said. “I must go now.” She moved her hand to his face and pulled his head down to kiss his forehead.  
“May fortune go with you,” she said. He straightened up, smiling softly at her.  
“Have a feast prepared for my return,” he said.  
“I will do no such thing, I am not your mother,” she said, pulling back. He laughed and turned to go.  
“Thor,” she called, stopping him in the doorway, “bring him home.” He nodded and walked away.

******************************* 

“You’re ready for this,” Loki’s voice was low, certain and reassuring. She took a deep breath, allowing her nerves to settle. She felt him move around her, checking how her breastplate rested on her shoulders, but she didn’t look at him, focussed on the other side of the sand.  
“Will he accept the challenge?” she asked.  
“He cannot refuse,” Loki laughed. “To refuse the challenge of a woman would be the ultimate shame.”  
“And to lose to one?” she smirked.  
“We shall find out.” She looked at him out of the corner of her eye, sharing a smile before returning her focus the arrival of her opponent. Thor stopped on the other side of the sand, surrounded by the Warriors Three. He looked confident, performing tricks with his blade, laughing, shining golden in the sun. She smiled slightly. He was so certain he would beat her again. She had a feeling she would enjoy this. Heimdall walked out into the centre of the sand.  
“The Lady Sif has challenged the Prince Thor to single combat,” he cried, voice reverberating off the rocks. “The combatants will advance.” Sif walked towards the centre without looking back. Thor came to meet her, grin on his face.  
“We meet again, Lady,” he said, tone just a shade above mocking.  
“We do, my Lord,” she replied.  
“This is a fight to first blood, or until you have disarmed your opponent,” Heimdall said ignoring them. “Do you accept the terms?”  
“I do,” Sif said.  
“As do I,” Thor boomed.  
“Then begin.” Heimdall stepped back. Thor immediately stepped in, swinging his sword. Sif ducked out of the way, parrying quickly before spinning away again. They exchanged swift, clashing blows, Thor attacking with heavy strikes, Sif defending with sword and shield. A confident smile began to spread over Thor’s face and his swipes became showy, just a little sloppy. The moment Sif saw an opening she took it. Thor left himself open and she stepped in, locking the hilts of their blades together and with a twist she sent his blade spinning across the arena. She stepped back, resting the tip of her blade on his collar bone.  
“Do you admit defeat?” she asked.  
“I do,” he replied, no longer smiling. She stepped back, sheathing her sword. “My brother has taught you well.” She froze for a moment before replying.  
“Your brother taught me tricks, but I was the one who used them to defeat you. Do not forget that.”  
“I will not,” he said, voice serious. She stood uncertain, until Heimdall stepped between them.  
“The Lady Sif has won the challenge, and now by the ancient laws has the right to bear arms in Asguard, as a defender of this world and her allies.” He turned to her, a smile in his eyes if not on his lips. “Congratulations, Lady.”  
“Thank you,” she said before turning away and walking back to where Loki stood.  
“I did it,” she said weakly, not looking at him.  
“You did,” he said. “Are you pleased?”  
“I do not know.”  
“It’s what you wanted.”  
“I know that,” she snapped. “It’s all I’ve ever wanted. But what do I do now?”  
“Celebrate what you have won,” Loki grinned, “and when my brother invites you to join him and the Warriors Three at the feast accept. Just don’t forget your old teacher when you move onto greater things.”  
“You are no older than I am,” she laughed, “and I hope you will be with me at the feast, I will need a familiar face.”  
“You will shine with or without me,” Loki said softly, looking away, “but I will be there as long as you have need of me.” She smiled at him then and he smiled back.

***************************** 

Sif had not slept properly in days. She felt slow and heavy, as if she was wading through a swamp, eyes dry and aching. She left her room in the middle of the night and travelled down into the bowels of the palace, keeping to the shadows. She froze when she saw movement on a balcony.  
“It is only me, Lady,” Thor said, stepping into the torchlight. She allowed herself to relax and stepped over to him.  
“It is a beautiful night,” she said looking at the stars. Thor smiled gently.  
“The stars truly are beautiful, but that is not why you are here.” Sif would not meet his eyes. “I will not keep you,” he said, smiling sadly.  
“I hope you find what you’re looking for,” she said.  
“I know where it is,” Thor said sadly. “I just have to find a way to get there.” She smiled at him and turned away, going down the stairs below the ground. She stopped when she saw the guards, taking a moment to straighten her tunic and cloak. She stood tall, head held proudly and walked towards the guards, nodding at them as she passed without slowing down. They didn’t say a word to stop her. She walked past the cells, not looking at the sleeping inhabitants, eyes focussed on the end of the corridor. He was stood by the glass, hands behind his back, smirk painted on his face. She stopped in front of him.  
“You knew I was coming,” she said, not a question.  
“It seemed like the right time,” he replied, shrugging slightly. She looked him in the eye. He looked away. “I still know your footstep.”  
“And I yours,” this was not a lie. In the dead of night she sometimes imagined she could hear him in the corridor outside, coming to her as he had so many times before, but she always knew it was a lie. She looked at him now, and could see the glamour he held around him, masking the frayed edges and weakened seams, but she said nothing, allowing him the pretence.  
“You have questions,” he said.  
“I do.” He spread his hands.  
“Then ask them, if you wish, though I do not promise I will answer.” She thought of all the questions she had held to her chest, and knew that only one mattered.  
“Why did you do it?”  
“Do what?”  
“Any of it? All of it? What was the point?” She refused to allow the anger she felt to show in her voice, but she knew Loki could see it. They could always see through each other. She sighed. “Just, why?”  
“Because I was tired of standing in my brother’s shadow,” Loki hissed. “Because I was born to be a King. Because it is my birth right. Because I wanted to prove that I am more than just some babe to be pitied, a relic to be brought home and wondered at, valued only as a curiosity.” She saw him control himself, stepping back from the glass between them. “I only wanted to prove myself. I would have thought you, of all people would understand. Was I wrong?” He looked so hurt, so open and vulnerable that she almost missed the lie. Almost, but not quite.  
“No,” she said, “you were not wrong. I understand, as I have always understood. I understand that you wanted to prove that you are more than just a little brother, that you have strength, and knowledge, and courage. I understand that you wanted to prove your skills are just a valuable as the ability to punch things into space. But I know you better than anyone else. You have a hundred excuses, or reasons call them what you will, but there is one you will not share. All these crimes, the schemes, the deaths, in the end you did these things because you could.” She could feel the tears behind her eyes but she would not let them fall. Fury flashed across Loki’s face.  
“Is that what you think of me, that I am some purposeless monster?”  
“No,” she said, “that would make it easier. If you were a monster I could hate you.”  
“And if I am not,” he leaned in as close as the glass would allow him. “What do you feel for me if I am not a monster?” Sif met his eyes without fear.  
“The same as I always have.”  
“Love?” Loki scoffed.  
“Of a sort,” Sif smiled sadly. “I do not know. What word would you give to the person who knows you better than anyone else? How do you label that? Is there a box large enough to hold them?” Loki laughed sadly.  
“It appears Odin has found one,” he said, gesturing to the cell that surrounded him. They laughed together, and for a moment it was like nothing had changed. Sif looked at where their hands were resting on the glass, palms separated but still so close, and knew that this was always how it would have ended. They were always close, but not close enough; they could see each other’s flaws and mistakes but could do nothing to fix them. She looked him in the eyes and stepped back, letting him see her putting her walls back up. He nodded slightly, an acceptance and a benediction.  
“Give my brother my regards, if he will deign to hear them,” he said, voice cold. She could only nod staring. Now the time to walk away had come she couldn’t quite do it. Somewhere in that cage was the man who had given her the knowledge she needed to carve a place for herself in the world, how could she leave him when he looked so lost? He stared her down, refusing to make it easy for her. Perhaps he too couldn’t stand to face the end. Finally she turned away; he had made his choice, she would allow him the dignity of it. She could feel his eyes on her back as she walked past the guards once more, feeling every one of her years weighing down on her. She was not in love with him, never had been, but even now she understood him. She had been mistaken in believing that would be enough to keep them afloat.

She would have walked past Thor without speaking if he hadn’t asked,  
“What happened?” He sounded so desperate, so guilty that she had to stop. She turned and looked them in the eye.  
“I asked him why,” she said.”  
“What did he say?” She took a breath.  
“He told me he wished to be King of Asguard, and if he couldn’t get Asguard Earth would do. We argued, I walked away. He didn’t say anything he hasn’t said before.” The lie tripped off her tongue easily. She had always been an attentive student. Thor nodded, eyes sad but not surprised. He believed her because he expected nothing more.  
‘He never did understand,’ she thought bitterly.  
“Are you well?” he asked, catching her off guard. She nodded unable to speak. Thor may not understand, but he tried, and his instincts were sound. He seemed to know that in the moment she needed to be touched, so he held out his arms, offering comfort if she would take it. She didn’t hesitate but stepped into his hold, burying her face in the soft fold of his cloak. They did not cry, but she could hear him whispering into her hair, apologies and comfort and praises for her strength. Still she did not speak. It was as if her tongue had turned to lead, weighed down with all the truths left unspoken. After a time Thor kissed her forehead and accompanied her to her room. She knew a guard saw her pull him inside but she could not bring herself to care. They lay down together, fully clothed, not touching, and slept to the sound of breathing in the dark. When she woke in the morning he would be gone, and they would not speak of it again. But sometimes he would look at her with a mix of curiosity and understanding, and she would feel warmth on her skin which had been cold for so long. One day that would cease to be enough, but for now, she would pretend. She had, after all, been taught by the best.


End file.
